


Devotionals

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Angsty Schmoop, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has this thing he does. Dean doesn't mind it, exactly, but he doesn't really get it, either. Then, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotionals

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I slammed out while I was trying to finish Kashmir (which is going so badly, guys, I can't even--). It doesn't actually work in the context of that story, in tone or style, but I think it works on its own. Hope you like it.

 

The way Sam cages him in and covers him, the way he likes to get Dean right where he can see him, how he likes their separate weights to settle together so they can feel each other all solid and immovable—it makes Dean wonder, sometimes. Sam used to spend half his time looking away from Dean. Not always because he was pissed or angsting or lying about something—though those were all true, too, a lot of the time, and a lot of the time most likely. When they used to talk, a little more open than they are now, Sam wouldn't look at him because, hell, why did he need to? He knew Dean's face, just as much as Dean knew his. Or thought he did. There were a couple of years there when it turned out Dean should've been looking a lot closer. 

Maybe that's why Sam's so damn focused on him now. Dean doesn't like to think about what might've happened to Sam, in the cage. Two archangels and that somehow infinitely magnified time, a lot of stuff might have happened. He's sure a lot did. Occasionally, though, when he and Sam are panting with completion, his thighs still wrapped around Sam's waist even though the muscles are sore and shaking—when he's fallen down to his elbows, sweaty hands slipping on Sam's chest—then, careful fingers will slide onto Dean's face, over his jaw and cheekbones and the curve under his lower lip, and he'll let Sam pick his head up, let him trace all of his features with that delicate, barely-there touch. It's not like it's a burden, really, though it confused Dean, the first couple of times it happened. Sam reading his face like braille, and it's not like either of them are blind. "Whatcha doin', Sammy?" he'd mumbled, the first time, and Sam hadn't let up, had skated a tiny touch over the damp edge of Dean's eyelashes, stroked a thumb over the faint dimple in his chin. "Nothing," Sam had said, voice soft and easy. "Aren't you supposed to be falling asleep?" And, okay, so Sam took a lot out of him, and he'd fallen asleep. Hadn't thought about it.

But it kept happening, and now it's something Dean expects, just as much as he expects the way that sometimes he'll glance over at the passenger's side of the Impala and Sam'll be watching him with that low, steady intensity. Nothing violent, not a haul ass to the side of the road and fuck over the hood kind of deal. Just waiting, knowing that Dean's a sure thing. Happened this afternoon, and then it was like a little timer, ticking away with every beat of Dean's heart. Long miles of highway, through the grey-gold light of evening down into a cold, starry night, a little pulse in the base of his belly saying,  _soon, soon._  And then the motel, with its goofy mermaid theme because they're not that far off of the Chesapeake, and then the cold sidewalk with Sam's hand heavy and warm at the small of his back under his jacket, and then dropping the bags and flicking on the bedside lamp and turning away from the one king-sized bed, and then—

Sam can be rough, but he usually isn't. He can grab Dean with those strong, long-fingered hands, shove him up against walls or onto his front on the mattress and Dean likes that, he really does. But Sam prefers it this way, slow and easy, likes to take his time, to explore, and it's gotten so that Dean likes that, too. He'd been afraid of it, before. Hated it. Wanted Sam to curl over his back and fuck into him, painful, shred him apart like so much useless bone and blood and aching muscle. 

But Sam's gone and changed, over the years, so slow Dean hardly noticed. He doesn't do revenge, any more, isn't interested in punishment. Instead, he reminds Dean of nothing so much as the tide, of the inevitability and ceaselessness of oceans. There's something old in Sam's eyes now, when Dean dares to look, and so he tends to keep his eyes closed. Sam's patience lapped away at Dean's grief-stricken fury until it crumbled, eroded away by something a lot more persuasive than time, so that now Dean can let Sam press a soft kiss to corner of his mouth rather than forcing him to bite, can let him ease Dean out of his clothes instead of tearing them off.

When Sam nudges into him Dean's on his back, yeah, but Sam's arm is under his shoulders, keeping his head up so it's easy to kiss. Dean's already quivering because Sam has taken his goddamn time—not even teasing, the jackass, because Dean's done with protesting, he's going along with it, but he  _wants_  so much. He's got one hand locked onto Sam's bicep to feel how it flexes when Sam surges against him, the other arm slung over the back of Sam's neck so he can't get too far away, so he has to stay right there and share Dean's shaky breath. No matter how cold it is outside, in here Dean's slick with sweat and so is Sam, the sheets beneath them already ruined, but Dean doesn't care because it's beside the point to all this, this heat and sweat and breath, the solid feel of Sam moving over and inside him, the wet way his mouth opens against Dean's jaw, the way he says,  _Dean, Dean_ , coaxing, as though there were anything left that Dean wouldn't give him.

After, when Dean is trembling with the aftershocks, Sam doesn't pull out right away. He lets one of Dean's legs slump down and Dean hooks his calf over the back of Sam's thigh, lets his head sink back into the pillow. He's got his eyes closed, but he's moved his hand from Sam's bicep to his chest, feeling the heave and flex of his ribs with each expanse of his lungs, fingertips picking up the beat of his pulse. And Sam, relentless as always, starts up his tracing. His thumb swipes away the dampness that always collects just under Dean's eyes, one finger sliding over the arch of his eyebrow, feather-light. While Dean's breathing slowly steadies and his muscles tick and cool like the Impala after a long day's drive, Sam catalogs Dean's bones and freckles and the lines around his eyes that he pretends aren't there, and by the time Sam's done Dean's warm through every pore, something small and stunted glowing in the space behind his breastbone.

"Still all there, Sam?" he says. His voice has gone soft, but he figures in these moments they're both being girly as all hell and Sam can't make fun of him for it. Pot-kettle.

He was kind of joking, but Sam's touch stills. Dean forces his eyes open to find Sam staring down at his collarbone, a little frown furrowing his brow, and when he doesn't say anything Dean finds himself thinking about the cage again. About what could've happened that made Sam touch him like—like something precious, something breakable and in need of protection. A flush immediately rises under his skin, to think about it like that. He doesn't think about himself that way. But Sam's eyes come up to meet his, and they're still old, yeah, but there's something a little scared there that Dean recognizes before Sam schools his expression, before he leans in to press his mouth to the fragile skin of Dean's temple. He thinks about a cage, and two archangels with nothing better to do, and the many, many ways one can go about torturing a soul, and Dean's a little more qualified to list those than most.

"Yeah, you're still here," Sam finally says, and then shifts his hips to ease his way out of Dean, that slick empty sensation that he's never gotten used to. Before Sam can roll away and get cleaned up, Dean tightens the arm he's got around Sam's neck, brings his knees up to cage Sam's hips and keep him close.

Sam doesn't fight him, just keeps his weight settled in the cradle of Dean's legs, barely propped up on one elbow. He's looking at Dean, a little puzzled, but patient as he always is when they're like this. He's always so patient, Dean thinks, and even though he can feel himself flushing darker he catches Sam's other hand in his, brings it to his throat so Sam can feel his heartbeat. Sam blinks, and looks down, watches as Dean drags his hand up his throat to cup his cheek. Sam's fingers spread under Dean's, settle naturally over the angles of his bones, and when Sam's eyes flick up to meet Dean's he shuts them. Sam thumbs over the barely parted seam of his mouth, stronger than he usually would, and his hand slides so that he's cupping Dean's skull, each fingertip a point of pressure Dean can feel all the sharper for not having to see.

He's still got his fingers curled loosely around Sam's wrist, can just barely feel the thrum of Sam's life, beating slow and steady under his skin. There's a shift in all that weight on top of him, and then Sam's kissing him. It's soft, no tongue. Just damp, easy presses, moving from Dean's mouth, to his jaw, to his neck when Sam tilts his head enough to reach it. He lets Sam do what he wants, like he always does, but—he feels strange, vulnerable in a way he hasn't felt before. His mouth parts on a little gasp when Sam licks the hollow of his throat, and that brings Sam back to kiss him properly, strong enough that he winds his hands into Sam's sweat-damp hair, holds on for dear life. Sam's always patient with him, even when he's being an oblivious idiot (which he is a lot of the time, he gets that, doesn't know how Sam puts up with him). Sam has waited and waited, but while Dean wasn't paying attention that small stunted thing in his chest seems to have taken root, grown a little without him paying it any attention, because he wasn't expecting this. He wasn't expecting  _Sam_ , somehow, at the end of all this, and when they finally break apart he slides his hands down to link at the small of Sam's back, lets his head slump back so he can see a little better.

In the light spilling yellow out of the bedside lamp, Sam's all golden skin and shadows, his lower lip gleaming wetly, his hair lit up with amber and mussed from where Dean had been holding onto it. He's looking down at Dean with that same steady focus, his thumb still brushing idly over his stubble. "Sam," Dean says, and it's embarrassingly breathy. "Sam," he tries again, and yeah, his voice is a little wobbly, but it's just going to have to do. "You're still here, too."

For a second he thinks Sam isn't going to know what he means, but—Dean's not good with words, he doesn't know how to say it. How can he say that Sam's his—that Sam is—

Sam blinks, and if he's not smiling, there's at least that soft curve to his mouth that makes Dean think of dirty, wonderful things, those little crinkles at the corner of his eye that make Dean lose his breath because, damn it all, Sammy managed to get old enough to have them. What are the odds. "Yeah," Sam says, and rolls them onto their sides. At some point they're going to need to get out of bed and clean up. Dean for one is really not going to spend all night on this gigantic wet spot of a mattress without at least changing the sheets. For now, though, he'll slide one thigh between Sam's, let Sam wrap an arm around his shoulders. They've turned so that Sam's the one facing the light. He's still got all that steady focus directed at Dean, but maybe Dean gets why, now. He touches the corner of Sam's mouth, just because he can, and it makes Sam twitch into a grin when he catches Dean's fingers.

"Aren't you supposed to be falling asleep?" Sam says, quiet and finally smiling, and Dean's not going to go so far as to say that Sam's  _happy_ , but maybe—maybe—he's close.

 


End file.
